Class J^S-3 $JS Book !L-&4^.S 7 Copyright K! (llj COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. SONGS OF THE STEEL AGE BY WILLIAM HURD HILLYER BOSTON RICHARD G. BADGER SIjf (Sorhain tyttm 1907 Copyright 1907 by William Hurd Hilly er All Rights Reserved Two Ooaies Received JUN 24 » 30/ I ^CoDyngtit Entry dUss £L aXc, No, COPY B. I T7i* author begs to thank Messrs. Harper & Brothers, Frank A. Munsey Company, The Century Company, The Criterion Company, Frank Leslie's Publishing House, and S. H. Moore £if Company, of New York; also Messrs. J. B. Lippincott Com- pany, of Philadelphia, and Perry Mason Company, of Boston: these houses having given permission for the reprinting herein of certain of his poems on which they own the copyright. The Gorham Press, Boston. CONTENTS SONGS OF THE STEEL AGE Five Travellers The House of the Looms The Night Express (St. Nicholas Magazine.) The Song of the Current The Lineman . . (Lippincott's Magazine, January, 1903.) The Wind in the Wires Lighthouse and Bell Buoy Song of the Press . The Giant's Highway The Midnight Mail (Lippincott's Magazine , September, 1 902.) The Way Freight . (Munsey's Magazine.) The Tunnel (Lippincott's Magazine, June, 1 902.) Song of the Engineer (Youth's Companion.) The Terminus (Lippincott's Magazine, April, 1902.) The Ruined Engine This is Caesar (Atlanta Journal.) The Vanishing Woodland The Abandoned Farm The Revenge of the Forest Approaching the Sea on the Virginia Coast 9 14 *5 16 19 20 21 22 25 26 27 27 28 29 29 30 32 34 36 38 The Passing of the Nineteenth Century 39 (Atlanta Daily Newt, December 31, 1900.) The Afterman .... 40 ROSES OF IRAN The Kinvad Bridge .... 4c (Harper's Magazine, January, 1902.) A Song of the Persian Poet ... 45 FLEURS DE LYS The Ballad of Charles Martel ... 49 (St. Nicholas Magazine.) The Last Stand at Hastings o The Chevalier ..... c6 Chateau Gaillard ..... 60 GOLDEN ARROWS 65 La Desiree ..... (Ladies' World.) Old-Fashioned Flowers ... .6c Wind of the South ... 6- (Lippincott's Magazine.) Deep Honest Gray Her Eyes ... 68 The End of the World ... g CANELF The Castle of Canelf . -j l The Wrestling of Thor ... 73 A Legend of Eric the Red ... 76 The Sanctus Bell 77 The Last of the Giants .... 80 Gipsies ...... 03 (The Sunny South.) The Angel with the Flaming Sword . 83 Revelation ...••• 87 (New York Observer.) jEOLIAN Meridies ...... 91 The South Wind Cometh . . 9 1 The Equinox ..... 92 Nimbus 93 (The Criterion, July, 1903.) Midwinter in Georgia ... .94 The Homeless Men • • 95 ATLANTIS The Round Oak 99 The Old Picture Book .... 99 Nevermoreland . . . . .102 The Phantom Words .... 102 Illusion 103 (Munsey's Magazine, February, 1903.) Beach Grasses . . . . .104 (Youth's Companion.) Ocean and Time ..... 104 The Master's Face . . . .105 (New York Observer.) Au Dela ...... 105 DEDICATION OF A VOLUME OF POEMS As one who dreams and, dreaming, fears Lest of a sudden he should wake To face the grim slant of the years And once again life's burdens take, So momently I wonder how Real daytime so much heaven can hold- So much of joy and peace as thou Hast brought to me, dear heart of gold: Wherefore, scarce knowing if this life Be real or fancied that we live, To thee, O steadfast Love, O Wife, This web of dream and song I give. SONGS OF THE STEEL AGE THE FIVE TRAVELLERS Whether they had but wakened from a long, en- chanted sleep, Or in some favored craft had crossed the unvoy- ageable Deep, — How they did come I cannot tell; yet this I surely know, That once upon a summer's day, not many months ago, Surrounded by the roaring streets, the tumult- burdened air, Five men of ancient garb and strange appeared in Union Square. Now one was a metal-worker Of Ephesus, and one A merchant, largely trading Trom Tyre to Chalcedon; A weaver of Panormus, An armorer from Xanthus, — The fifth, a master builder From towered Babylon. By different ways they came, and each had friendly clasp for each; A broad-roofed elm they found, and sat within its shaded reach. The metal-worker spake: " O friends, wise people these, and bold; Iron they carve as wood, and brass as yielding wax they mould. All night I saw, when from the mineson yester eve returning, Their Titan-builded furnaces like tall volcanoes burning. No dingy smithies mark the spot where rings the ruddy steel, But huge halls, where, from dawn to dusk, the open doors reveal Dim giants moving, bending, back and forth, amid the clamor Of block and chain and thundering forge, and wheel, and viewless hammer. Not craftsmen they, but sorcerers, with iron slaves that stand Ready to make a million bolts or axles at command." "True," said the merchant, "for the lords of trade employ no more The tedious, dusty caravan and clumsy sail and oar. The demon-driven train speeds past along the sing- ing rails, And at the wharf great floating towns discharge their precious bales. A marble palace, royal-wide, I passed by not long since; I said, ' What king dwells yonder ? ' They replied, ' A merchant-prince.' " Then spake the weaver: " Large indeed this people's wealth and skill. Their threads are spun by multitudes of whirring staves, that fill The vast halls with a surf-like roar; by magic force propelled, They spin full half a mile or more while our good wives of old Would twist a cubit: stranger still those wide, mys- terious rooms 10 Where sounds till twilight the loud brool and brabble of the looms. In long batallions ranged, and scarce by human touch attended, All day with lightning speed they weave their gorgeous webs and splendid; For 'tis some unseen god, condemned by Fate to toil below, Who sits before each loom and flings the shuttle to and fro." Then said the armorer: " O friends, brave wonders I have seen: Men use no more the spear and axe, the sword and rapier keen, Armor they cannot wear; a shield that well with- stands the jolt Of javelins makes but weak defence when falls the thunderbolt. Small use are helmets of hard bronze and plates and glittering greaves, Before the shaft that at one stroke the rocky ram- part cleaves. But I have found a curious thing: this people's God is Trade; To him are countless altars reared and bloody offerings made. Forgetful of heroic war, they make a war of peace; They gather with unending strife rich treasure, to increase The temple revenues of Trade; and, bent with jarring toil, Upon his thankless altar steps they cast their hard- won spoil." II The master builder said: " More strange, more marvellous than all, Their temples, narrow, glass-bechecked, uncouth, and cloudy-tall. Here hurrying thousands come and go each day, and late at night Loom those gigantic piles, ablaze with countless points of light. From a high roof one moonless eve I watched the huge town set With flickering jewels, far below the windy parapet. The gray smoke of enchantment veiled the dark squares, interblent With crimson: nothing more I saw; yet deep, malevolent I heard the tumult drifting in across the iron ledge As when the distant sand storm sweeps beyond the desert's edge. "I thought I stood again on old Borsippa, looking o'er The first great capital of all the world, and watched once more Above the low Chaldean plains, through the far night dissolving, Arcturus and Aldebaran in their black zones re- volving. " The metal worker said, " And yet I passed a street where surged A snarling multitude, by Fear and fleshless Famine urged. " The merchant said, " I saw the old, sad farms and homes acurst ia On which the vampire usurer slakes his inhuman thirst." The weaver said, " I saw the wan mill-women, — yes, and I Saw the thin shrewd-faced children where the mad- dening shuttles fly." Then spake the armorer, " I saw the crowded jails, the immense Gray castles, which in vain oppose theft, murder, violence. " ' Yea," said the master builder, " I have seen, in byways drear, The dwellings of the poor up-piled to the blank heavens, tier on tier. And I have seen the sunless lair of Guilt and pale Mistrust, The warm bemirrored courts of Vice, the palaces of Lust. Let us go back, go back, to where, in endless round and slow, The shadow shapes of other days perform their phantom show. Some time, perchance, we may return, when by its boasted art The world hath found a way to cleanse its own unrighteous heart." Sadly they all agreed; and so, with travel-wearied feet They crossed the shaded square and reached the coastline of the street, Where the swift, many-voiced tide flowed past with sullen din. 13 Around them like a gulfing wave the listless crowd closed in. Now one was a metal-worker From Ephesus, and one A merchant, largely trading From Tyre to Chalcedon; A weaver of Panormus, An armorer from Xanthus, — The fifth, a master builder From towered Babylon. THE HOUSE OF THE LOOMS Did you ask for the House of the Looms ? 'Tis a mile to the north, It is hard by the place where the lake pours over the falls. You may know it from far by its chimney voiding forth Huge monsters of smoke, and its thousand- windowed walls. It is square towered, angular, vast, severe; from within All day and into the night may he heard the sonorous Hum of the spindles, mixed with a rhythmic din As the chattering looms crash out their insistent chorus. O the dexterous looms! O the tireless, joyless looms! They labor wherever the thin white weft is drawn, — H Where the coal trains rumble and creak on the spur, and booms The punctual, pitiless factory whistle at dawn: Where the dingy dwellings are all of the same design, And a strong gate, barred and legended, blocks us ahead, — Where, dim through the morning dusk, in a voice- less line, The women and children go down to do battle for bread. THE NIGHT EXPRESS There's a light at last in the sable mist, and it hangs like a rising star On the border line 'twixt earth and sky, where the rails run straight and far: And deeply sounds from hill to hill, in mighty monotone, A distant voice — a hoarse, wild note with savage warning blown, 'Tis the night express, and well 'tis named, for behold ! from out of the nieht It comes and darkly adown the rails it looms to the startled sight — Larger, nearer, nearer yet — till at last there's a clang and a roar, A wave of heat, and a gleam of red from a closing furnace door; Then the crash and shriek of the rushing train — and our hearts beat fast and high When sudden and swift through the shadowy mist the night express goes by! *5 SONG OF THE CURRENT Firstborn daughters of Chaos and Night were the Clouds, dim rolling Under the dubious firmament, where with invisible pinion Wheeled the disorderly winds; then arose the tempest-controlling Spirit Electron — versatile, vast, and of boundless dominion. 'Round the mysterious core of the earth, with its fires volcanic, Viewless tides are awhirl, and unknown pulses are thrilling — Vibrant with plentiful power, and urged by the forces tyrannic Holding the reins of the stars, and the visible uni- verse filling. Long had this power gone forth: exhaustless, linked with the solar Central reserves, cannonading athwart the gray whirlwind's commotion; Silently ebbing and flowing in radiant ring circum- polar, — Flaming at night from the masts and spars of ships in midocean, — Ere yet man had discovered its hidden and mystical sources, Caught it with dexterous webs or ensnared it in brazen coils; Ere he had tried it and trained it and made its intractable forces 16 Grind at his mill, bear his burdens, and lighten hi multiform toils. Now, from the countless wires that span the low plains and the highlands, — From the shrill motors, and singing arcs along avenues splendid, — Mixed with the murmur the cables bring in from the farthermost islands, Rises the song of the Current, of manifold voices blended: I am he whom Egypt dreamed of, ever striving to unfold Mysteries of Nile and Nature, laboring with riddles old- He whom Pharaoh's magicians tempted with their rods of gold. Guessed at by the Hindoo sages, watching for strange avatars; Sought by purple-robed Chaldeans under the low, liquid stars; Praised by Moslem storytellers in the Saracen bazaars, — Only yesterday men found me, touched my gar- ment's outer hem; And I turned and from my girdle plucked a single sun-bright gem, — As I passed I turned and, smiling, flung this talis- man to them. So they talk of ohms and voltage, and they prate of what they owe me; 17 Learned charlatans in lectures seek to analyze and show me: I have wrought them a few wonders, and they fancy that they know me. Ye who dwell on wisdom's border — foreigners at Truth's frontier, Now retreating, now advancing half an ell or so a year- Boast not, lest perchance some burgher from the capital should hear! Know ye how the simplest blossom perfume from the dust distils ? How the germinal impulsion through the planted furrow thrills ? Know ye aught of that Far Country over the sad twilight hills ? Ere you brag of peace and plenty, and your for- tunate bright age Watch the sallow children working through the night at pauper's wage. See the vengeful under-people, glaring from their hopeless cage. Much you know of wheel and hammer: one thing most of all you need — Love that seeks and finds and blesses, tears that fall and hearts that bleed; Lest you bind the monster Famine but to nurse the Titan Greed. Better, yes, the times are better than in those dark days of blood 18 When behind their fended doorways feudal knight and bishop stood. Those were times of storm and slaughter; these are better, but not good. Not yet! But the world-rim brightens, and the coming years shall see Labor with its own full fruitage, largess without beggary; And the prison-bolts are moving, for 'tis I who holds the key. Mine the planting and the reaping, mine the hard toil of the field : Yours to rightfully apportion and to measure out the yield, — Yours the liberty of kindness, yours the perfect life revealed. THE LINEMAN Thin, scattered ranks of snow Stampede along the street; And sagging wires betray the slow Chill mischief of the sleet. In homely garb of toil, With tools of quaint device, The lineman comes, his shouldered coil Gray with a rime of ice. 19 Upraised adventurer, He climbs enchanted towers, And mends the magic threads that stir The world's remotest powers. From heights wind-desolate His torch flames cheerless blue. (Red, red the hearth where loved ones wait The winter twilight through.) Lineman, what hindereth That message I would hear ? Canst mend the web 'twixt Life and Death ? Canst gain responses clear ? I call, but still behold No spark of answering fire. O for some lineman true and bold To mend that broken wire! THE WIND IN THE WIRES Tall sentinels in file across Fields, valleys, prairie lands. Where some great chief has posted them To pass his large commands. Gaunt giants they, their names unknown. Their constant strength unsung; With rigid arms outstretched, whereon The copper threads are strung. Across the level that moveless row Leads out to the sunset fires. 20 No sound abides on the plain, save the 'ow Sad hum of the wind in the wires. Now back and forth (while iEolus His measured changes rings) Swift countless words go pulsing past Along those vibrant strings: Grave messages of love and hate; Vast news from near and far Of steam and sail, of life and death, Of storm and flood and war. While we have listened, fortune, fame, Swift back and forth hath sped, And men have won and men have lost Along each slender thread. Tet upon them alights the brown, wayfaring bird When of long winter winging she tires. O'er the fenceless plain and not a sound is heard Save the hum of the wind in the wires. LIGHTHOUSE AND BELL-BUOY Before, the solid sea wall, and the wide Blue background for a single sun-gilt sail: Behind, the square gray lighthouse, on whose side The day-glow lingers pale. Huge Titan of the bronzed coast, he stands Summer and stormy winter; through the years, 21 Forever looking towards the orient lands The Bell-buoy still he hears. The waves have diadems of gold; the sun Low in the cloudless west hangs round and dim. It sinks; and for a moment rests upon The sharp horizon-rim. Soon at the world's edge fades the last red spark — Clear-tolling bell, and salt surge, crashing high And lo! the great lamp, foeman to the dark, Flames out against the sky. Watch Hill, R. I., August 10, 1901. THE SONG OF THE PRESS When old Gutenburg, inventor of the printing press, and mentor Of the clumsy-fingered typos in a sleepy German town Used to spread the sheets of vellum on the form and plainly tell 'em That the art was then perfected, as he pressed the platen down — He had not the faintest notion of the rhythmical commotion, Of the brabble and the clamor and the unremitting roar Of the mighty triple decker, while the steel rods flicker And the papers ready folded fall in thousands to the floor. 22 " They can beat me like the nation when the job's for recreation — Say a fancy Christmas cover full of foolish filigree, — But I tell you what, my honey, if you want to make some money On a run of half a million, then just pass it up to me. You can watch the sheets a-snowing through my folder when I'm going, And I print them by the thousand while the happy moments fat; I can cut a pretty caper with a half a mile of paper While the little poky fogies are a-hauling off to hit!''' As the publication hour draweth nigh, a subtle power Seems to thrill through every sinew, and he hungers for the fight. And he hears the forms descending and with strident voices blending As the smell of molten metal rises hotly through the night. Now the last form, it is ready! and his giant frame is steady, And for one decisive moment he awaits the signal- word. " All in!" Faster, faster, faster, with a tumult that grows vaster Moves the great press. On the sidewalk shrill the newsboy's cry is heard. Like the deafening surge of ocean swells the rhyth" mical commotion And the brabble and the clamor and the unremit- ting roar Of the mighty triple decker, while the steel rods flicker 2 3 And the papers, ready folded, fall in thousands to the floor. " Here I stand, the bounteous giver of the latest word, forever Am I listening for the whisper of the wire; near and far, Good and bad the news — no matter — in an instant I will scatter A most marvellous translation through the crowded streets afar. Banks may fail and bonds may falter, and on an- cient hearth and altar Strange new fires may burn unbidden, — creeds may crumble, swords may rust, All the rack and change of ages doth but number me fresh pages While the slow red tide of freedom humbleth scepters to the dust. I alone am tireless, deathless; day by day the starved crowd, breathless, Waits for me to feed and fill them, for new false- hoods ravenous — Hence with truth perforce I mingle harmless fictions and the jingle That the multitude call poems, — jest and fable dolorous; — Banal narrative and hollow cant of Pharisees they swallow Mixed with modicum of knowledge, here and there a saving grain; — Here and there a crystal holy; and Truth's essences are slowly Conquering the world's black blindness, driving out the old blunt pain." 24 THE GIANTS' HIGHWAY Adown the hollow valley, And over the sheer ravine, Along bleak salty barrens And blissful miles of green, — ■ Under the boreal starlight, And under tropic suns, From ocean far to ocean The Giants' Highway runs. It spans the widest river; It cleaves the jagged crown Of the steep range: it flashes Through the fierce, cloudy town; — Through maize and bearded barley, Past pines and poplars tall. Its gleaming curve swings broadly Beyond my garden wall. The fast Freight, plunging southward Beneath the faded moon; The Vestibuled at sunrise, The long Express at noon; The Limited at twilight, And the hoarse Northbound Mail: I hear their huge wild voices — The giants of the rail, — Calling and ever calling In tones that urge and thrill, And I am fain to follow Beyond the changeless hill; For love or strife or sorrow, For large or fruitless deeds, I would that I knew whither The Giants' Highway leads. 25 THE MIDNIGHT MAIL Resonant, full and deep Is the voice of the midnight mail: It rolls through the shadowy realms of sleep When the high moon gleams on the rail. It startles the drowsing oak, And the clustered pines reply, And the gray batallions of goblin smoke Hang moveless under the sky. But oh, not the lordly notes That waken the dreaming hill, Nor the cloud-white plume that backward floats. Nor the clamor that warns, " I kill!" — Not the drifting smoke above, Nor the transient furnace glare, But the freightage of sorrow and joy and love Which the Midnight Mail doth bear! The great, swift wheels, the long Yellow chain of squares agleam — It is not for these that the poet's song Is blent with the roar of steam. Not the triumph of splendid arts. Nor the prince of the passionless rail, But the anxious eyes and the beating hearts That wait for the Midnight Mail! 26 THE WAY FREIGHT Red semaphores along the line displayed, And broad black smoke against the sunset bars; The Way Freight, noisy caravan of trade, Impeded by a multitude of cars, Comes toiling up the difficult long grade. Engines and men — not all of us may lead The Fast Mail or the meteor Express. The plodding Mogul fills an urgent need Where the swift Flyer would be powerless. Ofttimes the greater strength hath lesser speed. THE TUNNEL Gray, rock-strewn plains, walled in with hueless hills: A blurred, tumultuous canyon; then the black Jaws of the tunnel — instant night that chills Through the closed windows. Down the ob- scure track Rushes the train with blind, monotonous Clamor, the steam's huge intermittent roar Grows fiercer. Has this darkness dolorous No end ? — and shall we see the sky no more ? But look! A sudden smoky dawn — a burst Of sunshine, and the far, sweet blue! Behold Another country, fairer than the first: Meadows and misty woods and harvest-gold; And a slow river, at whose flowered verge The wet grass flourishes and calm trees bend. And so, perhaps, we may at last emerge From that dread tunnel whither all roads tend. 27 THE SONG OF THE ENGINEER You may lounge on your velveted cushions and mark each mile with a thoughtless dream — You may say there is nothing of wierd romance in the practical prose of steam: But you never have sat in the dust and smoke, and seen that the track was clear, Nor held the reins of the steed that leaves the wind in its wild career. No soulless, dull machine I drive, for I feel her passionate breath When I ride her over the endless rails that run by the brink of death! My fireman, lit by the flame's red glare, Myself, and our engine — o'er valley and height We three are as one, and together we share The marvellous triumph and glory of flight! My will is hers, and her strength is mine: past the sandhills gray and low, Through the shimmering cornfields' long green line and the sounding moods we go! There is naught on the bridge that checks her speed, and naught in the tunnel she fears; For my slightest touch on the throttle she feels, and my softest whisper she hears. Only a touch and a whispered word, on the trestle narrow and high; When she trembles and shrinks on the dangerous curve, or a freight train thunders by. Loud is the shriek of the startled air — Long is the stretch of the roadbed white: We three are as one; and together we share The marvellous triumph and glory of flight! 28 THE TERMINUS The wide town swings to view; the train speeds past Long roaring freights. Mysterious voices blend With the shrill steam: then underneath the vast Vault of the terminus, we find at last Our journey's end. Beyond the doors, a wintry wilderness, The formidable streets lie strange and far. But see, familiar faces wait to bless Our coming. How informed with joyfulness Their greetings are! I wonder if, to when into the world's great Sad terminus, I come unasked, unknown, Will welcoming dear faces for me wait, Or must I through the hollow-clanging gate Pass out alone ? THE RUINED ENGINE Behind the village, on the level meadow, Prone to the boundless sweep of changing skies — Through rain and snow, gay sun and wintry shadow A fallen and forgotten giant lies. Long since fallen and dead; But the shifting seasons pass : And his iron bones with rust are red, And the dust of decay around him spread Is food for the thrifty grass. 29 Through that great chest, where once, with mighty breathing. Roared the red-passionate flame in lusty song, — Amid those arteries, where, pulsing, seething, Surged the swift steam to sinews large and strong, The low- voiced Autumn breeze flutes faint and hollow. Up to the headlight goes a blossoming vine; Whither the tawny bee is blithe to follow, Drinking from fragile cups their costly wine. Yon white-haired man — who is he ? Why walks he out on the grass ? Hush! This was his engine once. But we Want neither now; for the world swings free, And the cruel seasons pass. "THIS IS CESAR" When with panoply and triumph, came the legions from the fray, And the gorgeous Roman eagles flashed along the Appian Way, High above them, robed in purple and with victor's laurel crowned, Rode the emperor, while his minions bade the brazen trumpet sound. Sometimes it was fierce Tiberias, cruel, merciless, unjust; Sometimes it was bronze-beard Nero, mad with monstrous crime and lust; Yet to all alike the greeting from the servile Roman crowd, " Live the emperor! Long live Caesar!" rose in thunders clear and loud. 30 And his reign has never ended — he is tyrant, as of old, Leading still the captive millions at his chariot wheels of gold, " Caesar " was the name they gave him when he graced the conqueror's car — With the Germans he is " Kaiser/' and the Russians call him " Czar. " Once our fathers fought for freedom, and on many a stubborn field Gained the right of independence with their life- blood signed and sealed — At the ancient thrones of Europe hurled the gauntlet of the free, And the despot's paid retainers drove they back across the sea. Through the decades that have followed it has been our boast and pride That no hated royal standard blazes where our fathers died! But that, in our blest republic, one and all may freely share Right of property and conscience, right of trial full and fair. Yet by crafty bribes the tyrant gained our closely guarded gates; Last night stealthily he entered — patiently he works and waits. Ye will have him — ye who glory in our conquered lands afar — Ye who with the homes of thousands feed the flames of useless war. Madman of Ahenobarbus, making vice and crime an art — 31 Feeble Claudius, weak Domitian — demon's soul and coward's heart — This is Caesar: he is despot where the fires of con- quest burn; We shall have him, fellow patriots, when the con- querors return. Out with those that talk of empire, bidding high for cheap renown! What is empire but the purple ? What is conquest but a crown ? This is Caesar — he is waiting, waxing stronger day by day; Let us drive the lurking tyrant from our borders while we may! THE VANISHING WOODLAND I Insolent stranger, disturbing the ancient calm of the forest, — Slayer of old pines, — harsh-voiced prophet of civi- lization — Cease, thou savage Car, thy piercing damnable discord; Hearken to one who loveth alike the lane of the woodland And the long, smoke-veiled street, with its complex clangor and tumult. Excellent manifold blessings do follow the far re- sounding Axe of the pioneer, and the shrieking saw, and the railway. 32 Manifold excellent blessings — wide roads, populous cities, Thunder of splendid trains, and whir of a million spindles, Passes the quiet rule of the age dieties, holding Festivals under the trees, and the piping birds in the branches. Comes, with its new-found magic, the reign of the wheel and the hammer — Cabled bridges, and strange lights, lit by the gnomes of the current; After the golden age swift follows the age of iron. II Towns there must be, and cities, and huge mills noisily turning — Mad, congested streets and sunless tenements — byways, Boulevards, lordly walls with starving souls behind them: Wherefore the tyrant Commerce exacts as an annual tribute Numberless massive trees from the unresisting forest. Ill Is it the drifting smoke from a thousand factory chimneys ? Somehow over the town hangs a somber mist, and a longing Large and unknowable: not as the sweet half- heavenly sadness 33 Here in the shade of these oaks and minstrel pines; but a doleful Atmosphere, with some pure, vital element lacking. IV Cease for a while thy turbulent din, thou greedy destroyer; Thinkest that man can arise and possess the whole face of the planet After his friends, the trees, are slain, and their former dominions Barren and gray, obscured by the noxious fumes of the furnace ? Leave us a few dim groves, to refresh the Wind as he journeys, Weary of crowded lanes and burdened with smoke, to remind us How betwixt man and tree is an ancient, wonderful kinship; How, since the daybreak of time, the Almighty has given His larger Messages only to those who sought the far dusk of the woodland — Those who fasted and prayed in the gloom of the whispering branches. THE ABANDONED FARM Sunset slow-deepening to dusk, and chill October dampness on the twilight road: Familiar lanes, and old trees bare and still; The quiet well, whence unbought blessings flowed — The vacant, voiceless farmhouse on the hill. 34 The orchard, where in former times each bough Flamed red with fruitage, stands forlorn and waste. The rose-lit garden is a desert now. Beyond, by crumbling stone walls veined and traced, Are gray fields, long unfurrowed by the plough. From out yon gable window, years ago, One watched the distant-wheeling planets rise; And suddenly his young heart felt the glow Of limitless unrest: before his eyes Passed, in wild dreams, the great world's magic show. He turned his face to the huge misty town. The kindly fields thenceforth knew him no more. So went three sons, straight-limbed and ruddy brown, To mix with savage Trade's unceasing roar: Then the two desolate white heads went down. Thou City, stark devourer of the spoils Of wide lands and ancestral homes — thou vast Million-eyed monster, grasping countless coils Of steel — strange and how strange that men should cast Themselves into thy perilous dim toils! Some day the enchantment of the town will end. Man will awake from his long dream, and learn The peace that none but the kind leaves can lend. Back to the steadfast country will he turn, As to some loyal, oft-rejected friend. 35 Meanwhile the fields lie waste, with none to till. The barn is empty, the broad meadow-lands Merge in one sedgy wilderness, and still, Half ruinous, mutely reproachful, stands The silent-grieving farmhouse on the hill. THE REVENGE OF THE FOREST Ere ever the sound of the sinister axe rang out where the wild birds dwell Or ever the rodman's wand adverse had broken the ancient spell, The old gods ruled in the plotless woods, and the song of each bearded pine Was blent with the plash of a fountain that flowed from an immemorial shrine. They were splendid days, those ended days, when the vast wind wheeled and whirled To the violet verge where the cloudy surge broke white at the edge of the world; And the storm flames flickered to east and north, and the host of the rain marched by: And anon the red disk of the sun looked forth from the land of the western sky. Now what do you hear them saying; — The oaks and the poplars tall ? Brother of leaves, when the twilight grieves What say they all ? W hat whisper they when the dusk hangs gray And the moonmotes fall ? 36 They speak of the restless vandal tribes that harried the silent grove, Of the turbulent timber chiefs that hard for the splendid pillage strove; Of trees by the hundred million slain, through a cycle of threescore years; And of warnings sounded forth in vain by a few unlauded seers. But most of all do they moan and call when the midmost dark sweeps low, And noiselessly in the gnarled gloom the tree- wraiths come and go; They call and moan, with a pious fear of a deity shadow-shrined, And at length they tell of the vengeance drear that the wood-gods wrought mankind. Now what do you hear them saying, — The oaks and the poplars tall ? Brother of pines, when the blurred moon shines, What say they all ? When the thin mist rolls 'mid the somber boles And the stark owls call ? They tell how the legioned clouds came out from the camps of the storied hills, And sought the fair populous plain with its fields, its towns and dissonant mills, Then the flood dropped down, gray sheet on sheet from the melting firmament, And river and sky in mid heaven high were as one dread chaos blent; 37 And the long steel bridges writhed with pain and at length with a shriek went down And the people woke and cried in vain, from the roofs of the fated town. But beyond the pale of the desolate vale the world no message heard, And the throbbing fires on the broken wires died out with a half-formed word. Now ever we hear them sighing, — The oaks and the poplars tall; Brother of leaves, when the mad wind grieves. What say they all ? On whom and where do the high gods swear Must the next curse fall ? APPROACHING THE SEA ON THE VIRGINIA COAST Labors the dusty train all day through dry, Deserted, smoke -enshrouded fields. How long Till we shall hear again the welcoming song Of the wide surf, and feel its spray ? A cry Comes from our engine, as he plunges swift past high And isolated pines — a sober throng — Old Neptune's melancholy sentries, 'twixt whose strong, Uncurving limbs, the traveler's eager eye Soon fancies, as they dizzily swing past, That it finds grateful glimpses here and there Of distant emerald. Then comes a vast And treeless lowland, reeking with the rare, Faint breath of salty marshes; and at last The first delicious burst of ocean air! 38 THE PASSING OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY December 31, 1900 Misty and sad the stars, and the wind a requiem sigheth : To-night is the last of the year, and to-night the Century dieth. Century greatest of all — magician and ruler sublime — Grandest of all that have passed along the Appian Way of Time; Vast was his triumph, and splendid with silver and gold and steel; Proudly he rode, with the Thunderbolt chained to his chariot wheel. Dark and deserted the streets; but across in the neighboring square The windows are blazing with light where mingle the brave and the fair. They are dancing the old year out; there is music and laughter within — Cadence of mel'sonant flute and lilt of thewild violin. But listen! the dolorous bell! At last it is striking the hour: Vibrant and full and clear it sounds from the gray church tower. And the song of the viol and flute dies out with a sigh in the gloom, And solemnly stroke after stroke peals forth the Century's doom, Twelve! and the bird called Midnight, that flies at the edge of to-day, 39 Passes, formless and silent, swift on his westward way: And the East Wind, suddenly rising, blows fresh from Atlantic deeps, And over the continent wide the Twentieth Cen- tury sweeps! Many there are who tell us that man's best mo- ments are o'er, Saying, "The rose of his pride shall wither to bloom no more." Not so; for the day draws nigh, by the Hebrew seer foretold, When Peace shall interpret the Law, and love shall be better than gold. And though there be sickness and famine, and wars and rumors of wars, Yet still through the darkness the future shines forth in the steadfast stars. So hail, thou cycle of hope! — Remember, the world is young! There are victories yet unattained, there are songs that are still unsung! THE AFTERMAN "So men shall rise to be Aftermen." I A crumbling stone, a bit of old brass, hid Under the red shifting sand; Traces of a forgotten pyramid, A streak of rust, A ring from a dead hand; A heap of melancholy dust: 40 Here dwelt an ancient colony of Men. Here lived they, fought and toiled and loved, and then Slept, as all living must. II I wonder ... if he who wore This ring — this curiously graven band Of clouded gold — did ever pace the sand On the long, windy shore, And listen for old voices that drift Through the wide open heaven from far Planet and star; For secrets of the tides that stir and lift Ocean and world and soul: Or haply where the fluent combers roll, Did hearken for divine Answers to hoary tangled doubts and curst Riddles, in the reiterated hurst And thunder of the solemn frenzied brine. Ill Strange, that with amiable fields and wide Land-locked seas of grain, And promise that the round of sun and rain Should never cease; With friendly hills, where flocks and clouds abide; And every flowered lane All white with multiform fair counsellings Of peace; — And the gray woods informed with whisperings Of that mysterious, immortal Breath That lingereth 4i Around prophetic groves and vocal springs; — How strange that these Men valued most the things Of war and death! IV Unfathomable race! that toiled and built Year after year; that knew The slow rewards of industry and strength; And then at length With causeless anger and colossal guilt, Wantonly overthrew, — That bartered day for night, blood for dry bones, And gave The sap of life for false lures of the grave, — Mad tribes, that circled through the varied zones In many a sombre wave, Urged onward by unreasoning distress; And traveled every trail and highroad save The pathway to the house of Happiness. Were they but brutes of loftier fashioning ? Or outlawed angels, banished from their sphere And ever wandering Through the half dusk of Heaven's frontier ? — Yet neither is our vision true nor clear, Nor may we boast. Bent by the same large, overlording will, And by the same obscure impulsion stirred, All, from the humblest sparrow to the most High-plumed archangel of the host, Are still Imperfect echoes of the changeless Word. 42 ROSES OF IRAN THE KINVAD BRIDGE {Persian) At the end of the pam that all men tread, at the end of the road called Time, Where the land slopes off to the cliffs of death, and the dolorous vapors climb, Over the cloudy gulf of hell, and the chasm of dim despond, The Kinvad Bridge swings frail and far to the heavenly heights beyond. Nine javelins wide is the Kinvad Bridge when passeth a righteous soul; Royally ample and safe it leads to the distant shin- ing goal; But when others come to the cliffs of death — ah, yes, the bridge is there — But oh, what a narrow thread that spans the gray gorge of despair! A SONG OF THE PERSIAN POET Hafiz, poet of love and death in Iran, home of the rose, Stood in his garden of shadowy palms at the clear day's close. Silent, he gazed at the towers and domes of Shiraz white and high, Looming above the fronded trees and into the dusky sky. 45 Stealthily came through the east gate the conjuror Night from afar; Over the towers of Shiraz he hung a beautiful star. Suddenly through the twilight a passing cry was heard: Northward over the murky grove hurried a homing bird. Over the domes of the murmurous town she held her tireless flight Seemingly unto the star that hung in the hollow blue; and the sight Pierced the soul of Hafiz, poet of golden rhyme, So that he gave to the wind this song, that has crossed the desert of Time: "The bird of my heart is a sacred bird, whose nest is at Allah's throne; Caged in this body it sighs to be free, and to soar unto Heaven alone. If ever it flieth above the world, it findeth rest no more Till it sees the light of the crystal towers, and enters the palace door." 4 6 FLEURS DE LTS THE BALLAD OF CHARLES MARTEL Stands the old Austrasian castle white against the hills afar, Every spire and tapering turret pointing to some splendid star; On its battlements the moonlight breaks in many a silver bar. Tramp of horse, with jest and laughter, from the oaken drawbridge sounds; With his archers and companions, with his kingly hawk and hounds, Charles the Duke comes riding homeward from his feudal hunting-grounds. Clattering up the rocky roadway, rides with wild and breathless speed Straight to Charles's side a herald; there he checks his foaming steed. Silent now the merry courtiers, crowding near his words to heed. " Sire, the dreaded Moorish army presses on through Aquitaine; Eudo with his stout retainers strives to check their course in vain. All the south of France lies groaning 'neath the yoke of Moslem Spain!" As the Duke heard, looking upward at the tall gray towers, by chance 49 Bright the horned moon beyond them rose within his rapid glance; And he cried, " 'Tis right that ever, in the tranquil skies of France, " God's own crescent should be gleaming; but I swear by all that's high, While I live no other crescent shall be queen of yonder sky! France shall see, O paynim Calif, which is master, you or I!" Summer glided into autumn. Northward rolled the Moslem tide. Still the call to arms resounded; Christendom with hope and pride Heard the tramp of Charles's soldiers coming to their chieftain's side. Where the winding Loire rolls seaward with its song of quaint romance, There he met the Moslem army, there he staked the fate of France — Nay, the fate of Christian Europe — on a single battle's chance. Arab chief and Berber horseman mingled with the swarthy Moor, Sunburnt hordes from Libyan deserts — Sennar, Kordofan, Darfur — Stood the soldiers of the prophet on the rolling plain of Tours; Splendid with the spoils of conquest in a hundred battles won — 50 Gems from Gothic monasteries, silks in far Damascus spun; Golden crescents on their turbans glittered in the morning sun. Six long days of fighting followed. On the seventh day once more Clashed the hostile arms at sunrise; and the sudden battle-roar, Opened then the final struggle, deadlier far than e'er before. " Courage !" cried the Christian chieftain. " Let him die whose cheek shall pale! Right is ours, and God will help us — if we fight we cannot fail!" And the sturdy Frankish warriors hewed their way through Moslem mail. Lo! the Ameer Abd-er-Rahman lies among his thousands slain. Swift the last charge of the Moslems surges forward, and again Breaks, as on some granite headland hoarsely breaks the baffled main. On that day the Frankish chieftain dealt his battle- blows so well That, beneath his stroke unerring, Moslems by the hundred fell; And they called him ever after " Carl the Hammer" —Charles Martel. Darkness closed the scene of carnage: but through all that autumn night 51 Panic reigned among the conquered, and the morn- ing, calm and bright, Found the Moorish tents deserted, telling of their southward flight. And the shattered host retreated back to Spain, as o'er the seas Backward drift the cloudy legions broken by the rising breeze. Ne'er again a Moslem army crossed the frowning Pyrenees. THE LAST STAND AT HASTINGS All day the crimson tide of war has surged o'er Senla's plain; All day the Norman knights have charged the Saxon host in vain. The red sun sinking to the west lights up the en- chanted hill Where England's royal banner gleams in golden splendor still. Around that standard gather all who love their land and king: Defending crown and fireside, true hearts and brave they bring. Sturdy and loyal men are they — soldiers of stele and fire — Stout Saxon earls from Sussex, mighty Danes from Lincolnshire. 52 Once more the Norman duke himself, with large and lofty glance, Marshals against King Harold's flag the chivalry of France. Bright are their bucklers; loud and clear their thrilling bugles blow; The Chant of Roland on their lips, they ride to meet the foe. But he who fights for hearth and home fights with a giant's arm: Fruitless the charge, — the invading ranks roll back in wild alarm. The duke reins in his horse, and dark his brow with anger grows; — Down like the wind he rides to where the archers bend their bows. 1 Ye fools and blunderers, " he cries, " why waste your darts in vain ? They pelt yon stubborn osier wall like harmless summer rain: Shoot upward!" — and he grasps a bow, and sends an arrow high: It curves, it falls within the walls a meteor from the sky. Dark as a cloud a thousand shafts mount heaven- ward, and then Pour down a hail of doom and death upon the Saxon men. The invading host, fierce as a wave that floods the ocean's marge, Sweeps upward; and, while loudest roar the thun- ders of the charge, 53 An arrow, swifter than the fires that 'round lone iEtna beat, Drops near the royal standard — and its message is defeat! That eye which made Hardrada quail when Norse ships lined the shore — That steadfast kingly orb shall light the battlefield no more! Pierced by the fatal shaft he falls, last of the Saxon kings; Yet like a clarion's note his voice above the tumult rings : " Fight on! yield never: not forget your holy battle cry! And if we may not conquer, yet we may like heroes die!" Stern are their strokes, these men of Kent, ^from whom the Viking fled; Their maces crash through Norman mail, their dauntless swords are red. Yet inch by inch and ell by ell the Norman vassals gain- Loud laugh the vultures in the sky to see the heaps of slain. So one by one the lithsmen fell where Harold's banner shone, — Now Vebba dies; now Leofwine; — and now Gurth fights alone. Alone, he braves the Norman host, his battle-axe in air; He builds a mound of Norman dead, and plants the standard there. 54 Thus ancient Odin might have stood when Sig- mund's foes he slew — Tall Odin, with his glittering eye and hood of cloudy blue. "Per la resplendar De," the duke in rage and wonder cries: " And can none take yon English flag ? then mine shall be the prize!" Forward he rides; and face to face those fearless warriors meet — The Norman duke — the Saxon earl, unconquered in defeat. Fierce is the conflict; but at length, brave to his latest breath, Exhausted by a hundred wounds, the Saxon sinks in death. Now, o'er that silent field the night comes from the purple east: Where once King Harold's banner stood is spread King William's feast. Call him " the Conquerer " if you will — grudge not his meed of praise; But there were greater heroes still in those old English days. Lost is their cause — but they shall live, while sounds the minstrel's song: Harold, the noble Saxon king, and Gurth, the brave and strong! 55 THE CHEVALIER (John B. Gordon, 1 83 1- 1904) Let the loud winter gale The sorrow of the multitude repeat, Timed by the slow tread often thousand feet North, south, east, west: And let the dark guns on the cloudy crest Cry "Chieftain, hail!" But let the kindly sun, That even now breaks through the widening rift Where the low, hueless vapors veer and shift, In pure gold write How he who clambered soon to Fame's far height Men's hearts had won. See how the magic mist That gathers o'er the flower-embattled place Where his loved form now resteth for a space Is luminous With scenes of strife, and mountains glorious By old suns kissed: Lo! the cloud-enchanted summits that flun^ back the tocsin s call In a medley of long echoes, rolling from the granite wall; — And the soul of Gordon whispered, " 'Tis a sound that well I know — Ere my life-dawn well I knew it, — calling, calling. I will go." S6 Fierce and turbulent the spirits that from out the hills he led, — Forth they burst like some rude torrent swirling o'er its stormy bed . . . And the whole world still remembers how the blue lines melted when 'Mid the bloody hail at Sharpsburg stood the dauntless Gordon's men. Open was the field as daylight — never fort nor fended mound — Only the wide sky, up-arching over the blank rolling ground; Blue to northward, dark batallions, like some bow with tight- drawn string — Blue to southward, the Potomac, fordless and un- pitying. Then the men of Gordon listened, and one trumpet voice they heard, With the ring of iron courage thrilling splendid in each word: !< Men, the general has told us we must be here till the sun Sinks behind the hazy thicket and the glorious day is won. ' Will you do it?" and as one man, hoarse they made reply, " We will!" ' Steady, then," he said, " and meet them with the flame that flames to kill. Wait until you see the eagles gleaming on their coats of blue; Fire, then, nor cease your firing, till you pierce them through and through." s 57 Now like sullen waves uprolling on the leaden shingled shore. With a sinister deep murmur swelling to a vasty roar, Come the blue ranks nearer — nearer; suddenly the line of gray Speaks; and back the blue wave surges, melting in the awful spray. Once again the dread surf rages, mighty and malev- olent — Once again its force is broken, and it backward ♦ flows, bespent. Four times is the charge repeated, full four times the blue ranks fail, As the beryl brine is broken on the high cliff's clanging mail. So they held their ground, those dauntless mountain men, while slowlier Sank the sun behind the thicket than the stars in Leo stir. Scarce more slowly, to their leader, watching that red reeling sun Moved the orb of Hebrew scripture o'er the skv at Ajalon. Bitter and more galling bitter grew the fire on Gordon's men: Still they stood; but five times wounded fell their fearless leader then — Blood from out his worn cap streaming, blood adown his sleeve of gray. Ah, 'twas dearlv bought, the splendor and the glorv of that day! 58 Gettysburg — and all the forces of the fathomless abyss, Giant fiend with fiend contending, while the red shells scream and hiss, — 'Round the rocky hill disastrous, through the fires of Devil's Den, Ever where the fight is fiercest, plunges Gordon and his men. Spottsylvania — there is magic in that blood-en- graven name: Spottsylvania — aye, and Gordon, — on the palimp- sest of fame. 'Twas the twelfth of May, and gorgeous were the woods with green and gold, When beneath the pines at sunrise swift the surge of battle rolled. Comes the dread and doubtful moment when the stalwart line of gray Wavers, and in even balance hangs the issue of the day. Sweeping to the Bloody Angle, swirls the sheeted leaden rain, Dark as when the cyclone's vortex gathers in the hurricane. Is it victory or ruin ? Suddenly the atmosphere Shatters with the crash of conflict; it is Gordon! * far and near All the misty woods are vibrant; even to the tarn's black marge Riot the mad muttered echoes as he breaks the Union charge! 59 Cedar Creek and Massanutten — fades the banner of the bars — But the matchless form of Gordon stands superb with hard-earned scars; Then the glamour of Fort Stedman; — Petersburg; — the scenes grow dim; Appomattox; sinks the red sun down beyond the world's far rim. He who now moveless lies Out 'neath the heavens' quiet vaulted dome Knew but three words : God, country, home — To these was true. The knightliest he was beneath the blue Of southern skies. THE CHATEAU GAILLARD I Where Northward widely curves the Seine Far into Normandy, Till, circling many a fruitful plain, West by southwest it flows again To find the luring sea; — Rise the white chalk-cliffs, tier on tier, White mirrored in the waters clear; The highest drops ten fathom sheer: And once there came — so runs the story — King Richard to this promontory, And there, upon its crowning scar He builded the Chateau Gaillard. 60 II Within twelve moons its high towers gleamed Fair fashioned to his will. Those towers impregnable he deemed: So huge its bastions that they seemed Part of the moveless hill. The King rode up from the landward side: " How beautiful thou art," he cried; Then Philip fierce its walls defied: " Though they were iron would I take it!" " Though butter, yet thou couldst not shake it!" Answered, in tones that echoed far, The lord of the Chateau Gaillard. Ill But soon — thus strange the thread of fate- Rode Richard to Chalus; Urged by gold — greed insatiate He thundered at the city's gate With never rest nor truce: Till one day, as the charge he led Swift from the port an arrow sped, And stained his glittering mail with red. Thus died the lion-hearted King, His slayer grandly pardoning; And one born under evil star Came to be master of Gaillard. 61 IV Craven he was and dark of soul — Tyrant and perjurer — Lackland, whose reign was England's dole: Few names upon her record roll So scorned and hated were. The bloody stones at old Rouen Cried out against him: Philip then Hurled northward fifty thousand men; Down swept they to the level grasses, They crossed the Seine, they stormed the passes, Besieging, by all craft of war, The stronghold of Chateau Gaillard. Fair were its walls, and firm as fair, Builded with matchless art. No vulnerable flaw was there; Brave was its garrison — but where Was he of lion heart ? Chill dust he lay, while all the might Of France beat 'round those towers white. The foe came swarming in one night — At dawn the castle fell; that day Fell half the English fiefs away. One dauntless king were better far Than many a Chateau Gaillard. 62 GOLDEN ARROWS LA DESIREE I know not if her eyes be brown or blue — Her hair as midnight or as sunlit gold: I know that she is lovely to behold, And that her glance is tender, kind, and true. Her house I have not found. Perchance it stands In yonder square; perchance amid the brown Grass of the prairie; or in some quaint town Whose towers overlook strange, foreign lands. Soon as I see her will the mystic note — Cadence that I have listened for so long — Be sounded; and a passionate sweet song From that glad hour through my soul will float. I yet shall find her. It perhaps may be To-morrow — or to-day — or on the slow Dim river of the years — but this I know: That I will wait for her, and she for me. OLD-FASHIONED FLOWERS 'Twas an old-fashioned garden, bright With blooms of former days; W 7 ith asters and with four-o'clocks, Tall daffodils and hollyhocks, And rosemary sprays. We spoke the same tongue, she and I — (And I remember well) 65 Clear was the summer sun; and yet On mangold and violet The dusk of dreamland fell. Along the trim white walk, that led Through files of stately flowers, We passed the sun-dial, quaint and old, Whose forward-creeping shadow told How went the priceless hours. Under a large benignant elm That cast its kindly shade Even beyond the garden's edge, Together by the fragrant hedge This faithful vow we made: " Our love shall last, and shall remain — Unspoiled by Time or Fate — The same that now so purely burns, Till yonder shadow backward turns Upon the dial plate." That was long since. She lives, but far From me as east from west. So be it. In the stars above 'Tis written; but somehow I love Old-fashioned flowers the best. 66 WIND OF THE SOUTH Wind of the South, take this message, and bear it afar on thy pinions, Over the old red hills and the land of the long- leaf pine — Northward hundreds of leagues to the Snow King's wide dominions; Bear unto her that I love, O Wind, this message of mine. Whisper it into her ear when the errant birds, re- turning, Flutter about her feet and tales of the springtime tell; Breathe her a word for me while the sunset's beacon is burning, When, in the gathering dusk, she waits for the twilight bell. Tell her of Austral isles and the palm trees' magical glory; Tell her of roses fair and of seas where the white sails shine. Speak in what words you will, but simply tell my story; Bear unto her, O Wind of the South, this message of mine. 6 7 DEEP HONEST GRAY HER EYES Deep honest gray her eyes: so purple-deep That all the splendors of warm sea and sky, Of quiet planets at the verge of sleep — Of sun and cloud and star did in them lie. And he who looked into those lucid spheres Fain would have gazed therein a thousand years. THE END OF THE WORLD The end of the world will come, they say, Some day; The great blue globe will cease to revolve, And the things of earth will as dreams dissolve, Blank deep unto bottomless deep will call — And out of the heavens the white stars all Will fall. And so she must pass from my sight, they say, Some day; But until that day there are springtime skies, And until that hour in her dear eyes Happiness, home, and love I see. That hour the end of the world will be For me! 68 CANELF THE CASTLE OF CANELF I Beyond the seas where fancy takes the helm From Reason — somewhere on the misty shores- Of Wonder Land — that large, uncharted realm- Enthroned upon a royal cliff where roars The insurgent ocean 'round its base, the wide Dim castle of Canelf confronts the tide. II Mysterious and enchanted is each stone In every arch and wind-swept battlement; With melancholy ivy overgrown The venerable towers, gray and lone, Stand like magicians on their charms intent; And crowning all its wierd, majestic pile Are multitudes of spires and turrets high — A labryinth for the errant sunbeams — while Far overhead the great white clouds go by. Ill The massive gates, of iron-girded oak, Are in a deep, low-browed embrasure set; Built to resist the invader's sturdiest stroke The flanking towers and lofty parapet. Yet here and there along the creviced walls Some bright and kindly blossom lifts its head; And even where the fierce portcullis falls, The morning-glory clambers unafraid. 7 1 IV All day the rhythmic murmur of the waves, That plunge and whiten on the rocks below, Rises above the hollow-answering caves; And through the castle doors its runic staves Come drifting on the sea-breeze. In that flow Of music, many a strange, wild song is held, And magic notes from half-remembered eld. In every vaulted, loud-resounding hall That stretches, like a vista in a dream, To dim, delicious vastness — rise and fall The mad, melodious echoes that but seem Oracular responses, large and free — Prophetic voices of thoughts yet to be. VI Ah, could I reach that undiscovered land, Fair title to that broad estate I'd bring; I'd rule as baron o'er its castle grand By fief perpetual of my clement King: And mariners, cruising near those misty shores, I'd pilot thither; and no prince of old E'er dazzled honest guest with endless stores Of burning opal and engraven gold More lavishly than I would then display Thoughts new and strange as some far-distant day. VII Oh, I would reign as Homer reigns in Troy; Or Milton, in unbounded realms of cloud, 72 Commanding men and angels. Grief and Joy By turns, as unto Shakespeare's summons loud, Would heed my bidding. Often I would climb One of those tall, authoritative towers To catch more clearly in the wondrous rhyme Repeated by star-choruses sublime, A vague foretelling of the future hours : And there, perchance, out of the far Unknown Some whispered message might to me be blown; Through the rare atmosphere a word, a breath — Secrets of Space and Time, of Life and Death. THE WRESTLING OF THOR Whilst the gods yet walked with men, and men were yet heroes all, King Utgard sat with his nobles one day in his palace hall. So long it was that the daylight streamed in from the distant door As the light from the rifted east on the level valley floor; So high that the blue smoke hanging beneath the rafters seemed Huge clouds, and the shields on the walls like mar- vellous round moons gleamed. " Long life," said the king, " and wes hal, to our honored stranger guest: Refill the bejeweled horns; bring vintage and ven- ison the best! 73 I have heard, O Thor, of thy valor, and how through the North thou art Well known as the strongest of arm and revered as the stoutest of heart And now. ere the daylight dieth. full fain am I to behold Some teat ot thy boasted prowess, some perilous deed and bold. — Canst wrestle right sturdily : That is thv challenge ? Well, first I well send For my old nurse, white-haired El!i; with her thou ma vest contend." Now Thor, as you know, was the strongest of all that godlike race Whose dwelling was loftv Gladsheim. At this there surged to his face A tide o\ angry crimson; he turned to the muttering crowd W ith a bitter smile, and his laughter was mirth! long, and loud. For an aged crone had entered, becowled in an ashen hood; With tottering step she advanced, till in front of the king she stood. Tis a good jest, by mv hammer! a right good jest!" cried Thor. " Now brine me vour bee nd £ive him a :e of war!" But he faced contemptuous glances, and mocking wis and sneers; And the king leaned back on his throne, and said with a smile. " He fears." Then Thor cast off his mantle, and the house grew deadly still; 74 Not a word he spake, but his eyes were of him who hunts to kill. And he met the gray crone, and they closed; and it seemed that the prize was life: And the voiceless crowd pressed near, as they grappled in doubtful strife. For the grasp of the witch was as iron, and her breath was wintry cold, And the strong man's back was bent in her ever- tightening hold. Her eyes burned hateful steady, red-lit with en- chantment dire, — Blood-red they burned as the embers of a midnight funeral fire. And his brow became glistening wet, and violet- dark each vein, And the throb of his knotted muscles was like to the throb of pain. Then his right foot slipped yet more, ever backward and backward thrust, — And loud was the taunting roar as he sank to his knee in the dust. 'Weep not," said the king, " thy defeat hath naught of reproach or shame: The bravest hath wrestled with Elli; the ending is ever the same, And only that man may boast who keepeth his foot- ing the longest; For the crone was Old Age, who at last overcometh even the strongest." 75 A LEGEND OF ERIC THE RED "Eric the Red, the first European to set foot on American soil." Long ago, in the shadowy ages Where history fades into legend, There lived on the coast of Norway two stalwart brothers, 'tis said — Taught by the song of the sea-winds, Trained unto peril and danger — One was called Olaf the Huntsman, the other was Eric the Red. One day as they played by the shore, In their youth and their courage exulting, The sharp eye of Olaf the Huntsman espied a strange bird overhead: Quick as thought was his lithe bow bended — Quicker yet came the twang of his bow-string — But alongside the arrow of Olaf went the arrow of Eric the Red. " It is mine!" cried Olaf in anger When Eric disputed his quarry, " For did I not see it before you, and am I not eldest?" he said. Not a word spake his brother in answer — Not a word, as he plucked out the arrow And held it above in triumph — 'twas the arrow of Eric the Red! And he lifted his prize to his shoulder And cried, " 'Tis a bird of good omen! 7 6 They come from the Ends of the Ocean — the far dim West, it is said. Some day I will sail to that west-land — Sail to that land undiscovered — And a new world, strange and enchanted, shall be conquered by Eric the Red!" And the old Norse chronicles tell us How at last, after years of adventure, He found the far region of Greenland, through voyages distant and dread: And still in the fjords of Norway, The white-haired, wandering minstrels Repeat to the listening children the saga of Eric the Red. THE SANCTUS BELL {A Christmas Legend) (According to a local tradition, the pool of Bomcre, in Shropshire, England, covers at present a spot once occupied by a flourishing village, which was destroyed, so the legend states, as a divine judgment on the people for their return to heathen worship.) Beside the stone cross in the market-place She stood with arm upraised: the crowd pressed near. The expectant murmurings grew still apace As her young voice rang out reedlike and clear: "We want no dismal prayers nor mumbling priest, Nor sombre creed and formidable rule. 77 If we must die, then while we live, at least Let us enjoy the springtide and the feast, The wassail and sweet anarchy of Yule." She was the daughter of the Ealdorman: Slender she was and fair; and as she spake Through all the crowd an ominous whisper ran — The weaving of a spell no prayers could break. For in her eyes the storm and sunshine dwelt — Dark as the equinox, and fathomless As that dawn-haunted deep within which melt The planets. No man looked at her but felt The sting and terror of her loveliness. "' Brethren, beware! The wrath of God abides On all them that forsake His holy word. Jealous His law, resistless as the tides His punishments. Fell rumors have I heard Of mystic rite and pagan sacrifice Wrought by this woman. Cast her forth, for she Is an enchantress; whoso heeds her dies. Beware those foam-white arms, those luring eyes, — Beware her strange gods and her sorcery !" So spake the priest, but they replied, " Not so: Our fathers worshipped these same gods, ere yet You bade us kneel to One who long ago Was crucified, and all the rest forget. Ours be strong gods, potent to strike and slay — Divinities of conquest and renown. No sour-visaged anchorites are they. — Back, dotard, to thy chapel, fast and pray; — Free-hearted Odin rules in Midmoor town!" 78 The harvest whitened; the abundant sheaves Bestowed their largess on the threshing-floor; And the wild, ruined multitudes of leaves Proclaimed the triumph of the frost once more. So the year's end drew nigh : five afternoons The sun sank strangely red; from the far sea The Southwest Wind came with his fierce platoons Of cloud; then over the blurred, sandy dunes The colorless long rain swept ceaselessly. With reeling folly and mad merriment The townsfolk gathered in their torch-lit hall. The horns flowed high; the heathen minstrels lent Their voices to the Yuletide festival. A few devout souls sought the chapel lone, Where the old, white-haired priest awaited them With flickering candles 'round the altar-stone: For on the same night of the year had shone The great star over ancient Bethlehem. " Brethren," he said, " the hour of reckoning Draws near; for in your perilous-brimmed lake Almighty vengeance hath been gathering These seven days. Soon will the huge flood break With swift submergence over the doomed town, — This hold of idols and unmentioned shame, Where oft in jest they called God's judgments down, Railed at the cross of Christ, mocked at His crown Of thorns, and made a by-word of His name. " " And must we perish, being innocent ? " The old priest mused in silence for a space, His head in holy meditation bent. At length he said, " It may be that His grace 79 Will save us by some kindly miracle. Yet somehow must the faithful share the woe Of the unfaithful: and the Scriptures tell How, when high Dagon's pillared temple fell, Just Samson perished in its overthrow." He paused; and no sound broke the stillness save The rain that on the steep roof crashed and ran. At last he turned, and in large voice and grave The intoning of the midnight mass began. And as they sang, there blended with that hymn A tumult as of some vast organ rolling. Then through the fenceless doorway stormed the grim Advance-guard; — yet from out the belfry dim The Sanctus Bell ceased not its solemn tolling. The flood surged through the aisle, and up the white Slope of the altar-steps, quenched the faint spark On the last candle: then blind, ruinous night; And naught persisted save the dateless dark. And still, around red inn-fires glowing clear, The country-folk along those hillsides tell How he who sails across the wind-swept mere At midnight upon Christmas Eve may hea r The steady tolling of the Sanctus Bell. THE LAST OF THE GIANTS Over the road by Kenmare, that winds its tortuous way To where the towers of Bandon rise golden out of the gray, 80 The bronzed campaigners ride through the sun- cleft mist of the dawn; And they speak of the valor of Cormac and the kings of the days that are gone. But who is he that cometh from over the purple height, Marvellous tall and mounted on a steed of radiant white ? Full huge is his burnished buckler and helm, and the length of his sword Is twice the length of the weapon borne by Erin's doughtiest lord. " I come from afar," said the stranger; " Pray tell me, by what road May I reach th? hall of the Fenian chiefs and the place of the king's abode ? For none save puny pygmies have I found 'twixt here and the sea. Has death claimed Finn the Fearless and all of his men but me ?" They replied,'' We have heard the legend in ancient song and rhyme Of the hero Finn the Fearless, who ruled in the olden time. But naught of him can we tell; for twice an hundred years Have passed since to rest they laid him along with the last of his peers. " Ah, yes, we are told by the poets that Finn had a son whose name, If well we remember, was Oisin — a chieftain and seer of fame; 81 But his eyes were cloudy with visions, and ever he wandered in quest Of the haunted blossom immortal, that grows in the Valley of Rest. "And one wild night, when the breakers raced in with unholy glee, He was lured by a fairy maiden to an island over the sea — The Isle of Youth they call it — the land of the luminous shore; And his friends grieved long, but Oisin was seen by the world no more. ,, " And I am he, " said the stranger, " who went to the magical isle; But at length I bethought me of Erin — and fain for a little while Would return to the land of my fathers — the high invincible halls Where the Red Branch heroes gather and feast till the sky lark calls. " But naught save puny pygmies have I found 'twixt here and the sea; And of all the princes of Erin there are none who remain but me." So he turned his horse to the west, where the mere lay wan and wide And the road by degrees sloped down to the distant booming tide. 82 GIPSIES Homeless tribes of the moor and highway, Naught but the tent and the sky they know. None can tell of these roving races Whence they come or whither they go. We who dwell in the town and village Boast of our storied chronicles vast: Yet if we go but a few years backward, Lost is the chain in a barbarous past. When did the Storm-Goth fashion his hammer ? Where did the earliest Aryans dwell ? Whence do we come ? Does any one answer ? Whither we go, can any one tell ? Saxon and Celt and dark-eyed Tuscan, Mongol, Nubian, Malay — Out of the world's primeval twilight Each came forth in his own strange way. All of us are but Romany peoples — Vagrant strangers, wandering far Under the purple vault of the heavens, Horned moon and flickering star. THE ANGEL WITH THE FLAMING SWORD Beyond a soundless vista, darkly walled With cedar and with fragrant terebinth, — Against a twilight-haunted background, stands The angelic sentinel who keeps the way To the lost Garden of the Lord. The gloom 83 Of sorrowing boughs and sad inwoven vines Frames him with midnight, save that here and there The fronded screen behind him half reveals Far, dim-lit spaces, crossed and strangely shot With glimpses of immortal dawn. His hand Holds that great burning weapon whose long blade Is luminous with danger; and its light Shines upward on his bare breast, on his brow Stamped with the signet of Omnipotence, And even his majestic wings. His face Is blent of iron war and golden love: Pure as some solitary mountain lake; Strong as the viewless power that hurls the tides To landward; calm as that unchanging star 'Round which the quiet constellations wheel. Comes, through the sober darkness, with the slow Step of one wearied with long journeying, A woman, who draws near that awful guard, Pauses, then timidly advances; then Crouches in terror as his bell-like voice Flings out the challenge. For a while she kneels Thus motionless; at length she lifts her head, From which the hood has fallen, and released Her hair in splendid deluge rippling down About her shoulders. And she cries, " O thou Who standest at the gate of Paradise, Clothed in white raiment, hear me, pity me! For I am burdened even unto death. (Oh, the fierce, toilsome days! — the hollow dusk, — The blank and aching nights!) And I would fain Spend one short hour in that blessed place I once called Home; and tread the old sweet paths, And hear the benediction of the leaves. " As she thus pleaded, and it seemed as if 8+ Her very soul were struggling forth, at length His iron countenance relaxed, his face Bent downward with a look of tenderness, Like sudden sunlight on a scowling cliff. Yet he replied not; silently he gazed On the wan figure crouching in the path This side of Paradise. When she had made An end of her petition, still he spake No word, but lifted up his eyes to heaven; And all the woods were still, in reverence For that strong sinless prayer. At last he said: " Woman, there is no power given me To pass within these portals one who bears The smallest stain of disobedience. Jehovah hath decreed it, and His word Is changeless. Yet His ways are ever just: Even outside of Paradise the land Is fruitful to the touch of toil, and fair To the clear eye of righteousness. Therefore Weep not, but trust God's wisdom, and depart In peace." Yet she cried out once more, — " 'Tis not So much for mine own exile that I grieve, As that my children evermore should dwell In banishment. For it was promised me That I should be the mother of a race Like to the desert sands for multitude. " Again that holy stillness, while again With moving lips he looked beyond the stars. And as he prayed, a torrent of clear light Beat suddenly around them, so that even The burning sword grew dim, and far adown The erstwhile sombre cedared avenue Dazzled the splendors of white noon. With arm 8 5 Upraised, and pointing to the rifted heaven, The angel cried, " Behold the loving Word Which God will speak to men. " And Eve looked up And saw One as if risen from the dead : The print of nails was on his outstretched hands, — Yet was his face and raiment glorious As the high morning sun; and at his feet Thrones, and a myriad kingdoms. And she heard A voice like the surge of many seas, Crying, " The Prince of Righteousness shall come At last the tabernacle of the Lord Shall be with men; and He shall dwell with them; And God shall wipe away all tears. " And so, Listening, she was comforted; and when Slowly she lifted up her eyes, that soon Had closed against that radiance, and saw Only the dark trees, and the sentinel Guarding the moveless gates, yet she arose, And, strengthened by the vision, went her way 86 REVELATION Three times unto a wandering world God spake; At first through Moses, who from Sinai steep Said, " God is great; He rules the mighty deep, And guides the stars; He judgeth all who break His dread commandments." Then did David wake His harp of gold, and with melodious sweep Sang, * God is good, rewarding all who keep His righteous law." Yet still the world would make Complaint: " He is so great, we fear — so good, We are ashamed; our mortal senses fail." Then came the Christ: right royally He stood As priest and Saviour, rending wide the veil; And, in a voice like music to our ears, Said, " God is Love; He wipes away all tears!" 87 JEOLIAN MERIDIES Through the still groves in the valley walks the quiet-voiced Noon, Blue-eyed, smiling, yellow-mantled, — chanting low a slumberous tune Half of wild bee and of locust, half of crooning winds and streams; — Elder brother to the twilight, — almoner of cloud- wrought dreams. THE SOUTH WIND COMETH Sweet is the power the South Wind holds, With his pinions of sunshine and garments of air That scatter from out of their weightless folds The scent of magnolias, faint and rare. When the south wind cometh the daisies awake And nod at the great white clouds as they pass; And out on the meadow the breeze-blown lake Can scarce be told from the rippling grass He sets the ripening corn atune, Then sweeps it with his magic bow; And listen! An enchanted rune — A whispered lullaby, soft and low, That tells of shimmering jungles deep, Of warm blue skies and forests calm — Of plains where buried cities sleep, Of lemon-grass and ancient palm. 91 This is the South Wind. Mark him well — This soft-spoken, blue-eyed enchanter, who seems To weave round the senses a delicate spell Of bright, fragile clouds and of midsummer dreams. THE EQUINOX Low hangs the sky on tropic shores, the dark drops down at noon; And on the sandy beach the surf rolls in with troubled tune: For fast along the curving coast that fronts the southern main Comes the dim cyclone's rebel host and the insur- gent rain. The ships ask, " Who are ye ?" The tumult and complaining of the sea Is echoed by the ancient shelving rocks. Whereat the winds make melancholy answer: We are the legions of the House of Cancer — The winds of the Autumnal Equinox!" Their breath is pungent with the spice of cloudy Caribbees, Their wailing minor chords are heard along the coral keys. They smite the coastwise villages; grim wrecks they blow from far: They strew the tragic beach for miles with broken beam and spar. 92 Northwtfrd they sweep, till all the towns from Largo to Cape Fear Whisper, "It is the summer's end, the turning of the year!" My soul asks, " Who are ye ? Who break the spell of summer time for me V* Awhile the storm her questioning but mocks. At length those winds make melancholy answer: We are the legions of the House of Cancer — The winds of thine Autumnal Equinox!" NIMBUS {North Georgia) All through the slumb'rous afternoon the deft Cloud builders of the west, beyond a weird Sky-wall, involved with a many winding cleft, Their huge white domes have reared. The whole mid-heaven blends in one burning white Like a vast hollow sun : the faint Wind sleeps. When lo! across the world with noiseless flight The first great shadow sweeps. Now, rising midway betwixt north and west Above strange leagues of sudden dusk, the wide Black Nimbus, with its turbulent gray crest, Hangs like a moonless tide. Before it flies the gale with cool, wet wing : From foothills of the far Blue Ridge it comes. Already may be heard the muttering Of its dull, stormy drums. Flash after flash the long, keen lightnings rive Its leaden walls; the torn trees bend with pain. And now at last the windy rush and drive Of the fierce tangled rain. 93 MIDWINTER IN GEORGIA I The wind has wheeled from north to east, where fringed with stormy gray Another night comes rolling in to overtake the day. Now is it rain or dust I see that dims the sky-wall so ? Or smoke, or hail ? or can it be the vanguard of the snow ? II Last winter not a flake we had; the woods were dismal brown From red October until March: either the sun looked down Lukewarm and mournful, or beyond the sober- crusted plain, And over the unfrozen pond careered the mocking rain. Ill So far the churlish year has bought no ermine of large cost; And he has clothed the world in naught but common flimsy frost. Ah, could the magic white once more conceal our cheerless clay, The countryside six counties o'er would have high holiday! 94 IV The children would escape from school, and young and old would fare To mingle in the gleeful strife around the court- house square. Why should it make the whole sweet town go mad ? I do not know. Look! whirling, drifting, sifting down, here comes the splendid snow! THE HOMELESS MEN (Jacksonville, May 4, 1901) From the mouth of the pitiless, yawning sky The scarlet meteors fall. Swift the screaming tide of the fire draws nigh, And its roar is mixed with the maniac's cry And crash of roof and wall. Labor of years and toil and tears — and all to be utterly gone in an hour! Despair and death in the dragon's breath, and none but the homeless know his power. You build your house in the Town of the World, And its towers and domes are fair. Full bright are the gonfalons unfurled, And you think, as you enter the gates empearled, To dwell in happiness there. Labor of years and toil and tears — and all in the moment of death goes down: God pity then the homeless men who have built in a doomed and ruined town! 95 V ATLANTIS THE ROUND OAK Clear against the clouds in the dawn-light olden — Primal hour of childhood, magic time for me — Wonderful and wide with his leaves brown and golden, Fast friend and true stands a round oak tree. Oft have I watched while above the branches drifted Nebulous large galleys, white-sailed against the blue. Oft have I marked how between the leafage rifted, Silent, strange, and beautiful, the dreams came through. Fast friend of eld, though sad Time may us dis- sever, Strong as thou art strong would I have my soul to be: Shapely, broad, sincere, kind, and grave; contented ever Underneath the stars, like the round oak tree. THE OLD PICTURE BOOK Yesterday, when from the corners of a quiet attic room Crept the captains of the twilight, marshaling their hosts of gloom, I discovered a quaint volume, stored away long since amid Worthless, half-remembered relics: from beneath its patterned lid 99 LC Ancient, immemorial fancies issued forth in fairy streams. 'Twas the picture book I played with in the days when days were dreams. Oh, the quiant old picture book! In a dusty chest I found it. Through it pass in pageant slow Knights and ladies to and fro; For some wizard, long ago Wove a magic spell around it. It was still a book enchanted, with its black text, large and bold, And its gorgeous colored pictures set in borderings of gold. I beheld the same white castles, and the goblin- haunted springs — All the dragons, dwarfs, magicians, giants, leg- endary kings; All the intricate initials that I loved to solve and trace: — And I hailed each line and letter as a dear, familiar face. As I turned its glowing pages, came a jinn of misty blue, Caught me like a whirlwind, bore me backward the long vistas through; — Backward through the halls forbidden, treading not the year-marked floors — Cast a sleep upon Time's warders, passed the closely guarded doors. 100 And we stept forth in those regions where forgotten flowers had birth, And the populous dim heavens touched the rounded hills of earth. Over purple fields I wandered, past low lakes and reedy fens; Through the formidable forest and the fearsome, tangled glens; — Past enchanted towers, and gardens with broad rivers crisping by — Tall cliffs dropping off to nowhere, mountains blending with the sky. Best do I remember climbing up a toilsome steep road At my side |a princely stranger in his glittering armor strode. Perilous with sudden loopings, in and out the road- way wound Up to the sharp, tawny summit of the topmost ridge, where frowned Some magician's castle, circle by huge bulwarks of defence, With the yellow sunset flaming out behind the battlements. Now at last we reached the scowling entrance, and the black barred gate, Flanked by terrible bronze griffins, looking out with hideous hate. Then the prince canght up the trumpet, blew a blast so shrill and clear That the wine-dark downs made answer from be- yond the silvered mere. Fades the vision: but I somehow felt the salt wind of the deep — IOI Saw the high moon sailing, sailing, through the soundless tides of sleep. Oh, the quaint old picture book! (See, the mystic shadows falling!) In the vanished orchard lane Milk-white blossoms bloom again: On the western porch the rain; — On the air lost voices calling. NEVERMORELAND Now the moon-white surf breaks slowly, and the distant-shouldered waves Melt in the long tide, returning to its undiscovered caves. Comes the land breeze, warm and listless, dropping from the hills behind, And the Dream Ship weighs its anchor and sails out across the wind: Out beyond the capes low-lying, and the purple- pointed foreland, Past the silver brim of ocean to the cliffs of Never- moreland. THE PHANTOM WORDS Dawns an unholy day. Like sombre birds, Careering ceaselessly across the sky, Under the iron-tinted heavens fly The phantom words. 102 Out of the Past they come, a sullen brood, — Plumed with gray sorrow, panoplied with pain, Sinister, hopeless, like the drops of rain For multitude. They linger where the twilight glooms and grieves. They drift malevolent athwart the black Gulf of the equinox, and the red wrack Of autumn leaves. Ah, I would snare them, slay them; or below The feet of Atlas I would sink and bind Those words I gave to the resurgent wind So long ago! ILLUSION * Beware \" cried Age: " yon luring flowery way Let not thy young feet press. So once to me its false fair colors glowed. 'Tis all enchantment; farther out the road Winds through a wilderness." Unheeding Youth passed on: magician Love Looked down with a rare smile. To him then Age cried out in tones of pain, " Have pity! and deceive me once again, Just for a little while !" 103 BEACH-GRASSES They fringe the summits of the barren dunes. And the wide spaces of wave-printed sand; Despite the floodtide of a thousand moons They hold the border-marches of the land. Mortal, they wither: but the blighting year Holds promise of green myriads yet to be. And all the day and all night long they hear. The wordless whisper of the immortal sea. OCEAN AND TIME I watched the ceaseless warfare of the waves The stubborn shore besieging; proud and vast It seemed eternal — yet the great roaring caves Showed how that tireless assault had cast The shoreline slowly backward through the past. " And thus," I said, " the great destroyer, Time, Assails the universe; and he at last Shall conquer, 'till o'er every race and clime Rolls a sad sea of ruin, boundless and sublime. " Then far among the ancient hills I went, And found that the huge sandstone ridges each Were debris of some vanished continent, Washed from the shore, strewn o'er the sea's broad reach, And then uplifted. " This," I said, " doth teach How Time and Ocean gather, as of yore, From many a crumbling cliff and wave-worn beach, Material for rebuilding evermore Coastlines, continents, mountains, grander than before. " 104 THE MASTER'S FACE No pictured likeness of my Lord have I; He carved no record of his ministry On wood and stone. He left no sculptured tomb nor parchment dim, But trusted, for all memory of Him, Men's hearts alone. Sometimes I long to see him as of old Judea saw, and in my gaze to hold His face enshrined. Often amid the world's tumultuous strife, Some slight memorial of His earthly life I long to find. Who sees the face sees but in part; who reads The spirit which it hides sees all; he needs No more. Thy grace — Thy life in my life. Lord, give Thou to me; And then, in truth, I may forever see My Master's face! AU DELA Now what is abroad in the garden ? The wind with the moon has gone down- Died out in the west, 'mid the steeples And towers of the whispering town, The whispering wakeful city, That drowsily stirs and sighs And blinks till the gray dawn covers Its thousand eyes. 105 Now what is abroad in the garden — That garden, colorless, cold, With its wall and its dusky dial, Its odor of leafy mould ? No form have I glimpsed thro' the hedges, No sound have I heard at the gate: Yet surely 'tis more than my fancy That wanders so late. They are not the wraiths of the living, They are not the ghosts of the dead; The wall is unmarked by a shadow, The turf is unspoiled by their tread: Intangible, formless, and silent, They haunt the low ebb of the hours — Half bottomless pain, and half perfume Of smothering flowers. Back, back! they do come but to mock me; From the graves of my soul they arise: As if a lost folly had features, Or an ancient sorrow had eyes. And they murmur, " Behold thy begotten. Loved, hated, and lost long ago! Didst think we would lie thus forgotten Forever ? Not so. " Yet once I acclaimed them with gladness, And heartily hailed them in turn As my Princes of Pride, who would kindle New ageless passions, to burn With a sweet red flame on mine altar — The altar that many upraise; It is grounded in blindness, and builded Of ignorant days. . . . 1 06 Ere long the warm East will discover Her vast old magic again; And bring to your city another Blank round of unwisdom and pain. For the merchant will go to his ledger, The workman will shoulder his tools, And the quack and the lawyer will gather Their portion of fools. The poor will rise first: a procession Fast filing out through the gray. Some few find delight in their labor, The multitude works for the pay. The Pay! 'Tis the word universal, The deathless, omnipotent word; It sways and it conquers wherever Our language is heard. The Pay! Whether banker or blacksmith, Carpenter, newsboy, clerk, Or shopgirl or blossom of fashion, 'Tis but for the Pay that they work. One toils for gold, one for silver, And one for a pittance of brass; And one for a beggarly conquest Of tinsel and glass; And one — ah, shame! — for a spatter Of type on a twopenny page; But few for the joy of the doing — The glorious maximum wage. So they delve for a handful of pebbles — Cold pebbles briny with tears; And they murmur, "Ah, we shall be happy In two or three years." 107 Well, they tread the same paths I have trodden. They seek the same ends I have sought; — Shall I blame them ? Should folly judge folly ? Is sin worse in deed than in thought ? But I kenned, at the sheer brink of being; A vision, a rapture, a smile; And I knew that somewhere under heaven Was something worth while : And I craved it from twilight to twilight — I sought it on land and on sea; And I said, "In or woodland or ocean Abideth this treasure for me. " Does it lurk in the throat of the lily ? Does it hide in the heart of the rose ? Does it dwell where the tide, outward turning, Untraceably goes ? < ' Keen delights have I tasted, but never The vintage of pleasure supreme. As I plucked the ripe cluster called Knowledge It withered like grapes in a dream; And those other, those flame-colored berries Exhaled an aroma divine. But, crushed ere the morning, thev yielded A poisonous wine. " Nor yet have I found it; and weary Am I of long searching in vain; — But at last, in the cool of endeavor. This much hath my struggle made plain; That somewhere, betwixt that fair vineyard Walled 'round with old fencings of lies. And the low, gorgeous margins of Eros Where manhood dies, 1 08 Runs a clean white path, like a bowstring Straight stretched through the world; (but few Can discover this highroad enchanted, Or, finding, can follow it true) At the end, like a star in the purple, A gateway of crystal and fire. And beyond is the Tree, with its fruitage Of heart's desire. Comes a dream as of dawn, overflushing The slumbrous brow of the World; And slow from yon factory chimney The workday flag in unfurled. Now what is abroad in the garden ? — What legions of imageless dread ? They are not the wraiths of the living, Nor ghosts of the dead: But shapes of old blindness, that linger To mock the blue host of the light. It is dawn: yet they still dim my vision, They blot the straight road from my sight. King! take me now in Thy mercy — Thy love or Thine infinite wrath ! Lo! the sun, the illumining Spirit: Behold, now, the Path! 1 am warned that the dangers are many, The snares that would baffle and lure; And I ken that those gates open never Save only to hands that are pure: But I follow with thirst and with hunger — With thirst for the fruit of that tree Whereby face to face Him who knoweth I, knowing, may see. 109 Well I mind me of Nebo's high secret — The Lawgiver's vision and shroud; Nor crave I in this life a sudden Wide rift in the merciful cloud: For the wound of that joy would be mortal, And the sting of that bliss would slay. Yet for such bliss and joy, O my Father, « I venture to pray! no Ir = : : -"e: .: -; -f 5::- ■ ~:e : ::e;s '.t.--£ : -: a:": '.'£:-r-s .- 2« :e PreservationTechnologies - : : : ■ - --- —--■■■ JU1U24 UJOT